


Damian and Justin

by abi z (azephirin), azephirin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Banter, Best Friends, Blow Job, Comfort, Cuddling, Detroit, Domestic, Erotica, First Time, Friendship, Graphic Sex, Introspection, M/M, Self-Harm, Sharing Body Heat, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/abi%20z, https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow, scars, and finally coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damian and Justin

**Author's Note:**

> Another older fic (written in 2001). This story is an original work of fiction, blah blah blah. This story is also copyrighted. Don't steal it.

When I was twenty-one, I dropped out of Stanford midsemester and never went back. My academic performance there had never been stellar, and I didn't see it as any great loss. My parents were disappointed and encouraged me to go back, assuring me that I could weasel readmission via recommendations from the few professors who had liked me, most of whom had been in the Asian Languages and Creative Writing departments. But instead I moved back to Michigan, into the second bedroom of a friend's apartment, and took a job doing technical support for one of the local internet service providers. It paid enough to give my friend rent every month, and I lived off macaroni and cheese and tried to climb out of the hole I'd dug myself into.

My parents, as well as the rest of my family, had been particularly proud of Stanford: few if any of them had made it past high school, and the fact that I was not only going to college but to a fantastically exclusive one was a point of pride. They couldn't understand why I'd dropped out: they thought I was throwing away the greatest opportunity any of us had ever had. It was a chance to get away from the factories and the plants. They had a point.

But I'd been miserable at Stanford, though not through any fault of the school's: California was foggily, dramatically beautiful, and my fellow students were friendly, athletic, and intelligent, the kind of people you see in movies about college. I was none of the above: I haunted my classes, attending when I could slither out of bed, generally creeping out my classmates. I bought razor blades and cut deep, marking any piece of skin which wasn't readily visible around a T-shirt and jeans. One morning, after my Japanese class, I started walking and wound up northwest of Berkeley in the Napa Valley. Somehow I'd managed to get through the city of San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge without noticing. Disoriented, I called someone to come get me, and the next day I went to the dean and made arrangements to leave.

I didn't tell my parents what the past two years had consisted of; I just told them that I wasn't putting enough effort into my studies to justify the amount of money they were spending. I promised that I'd go back when I could concentrate better, though they didn't seem convinced. I lived in my old room for a few months before moving into Damian's apartment. He was my oldest friend in Detroit, and after I moved in with him, some of the gloom ascended from my life. I made a few friends at work, started going out occasionally, and took a night class in Java programming at the local community college.

Wednesday nights were our kick-back time: I didn't have to work until four the next afternoon, and Damian was off Thursdays. So one mid-week night after my class, we sat as we often did on his bed, drinking, heads on his down pillows and feet on chairs or bedside tables. The TV was on, but it was muted, and the stereo was quietly playing Kraftwerk. We had just watched one of our favorite movies, Woody Allen's _What's Up Tigerlily_, and we were doing much the same thing with the television: making up our own dialog and turning game shows into cattle auctions, newscasts into pornos, and whatnot. It was an old amusement, dating back to the junior high origins of our friendship.

We were drinking bourbon--I'm not sure why, though I know that Damian's grandfather had been partial to it while alive--and laughing, and I remember thinking that Damian's eyes looked particularly green. He was dark-haired like me, and we'd been the same height, just over six feet tall, since eleventh grade. Lacrosse, though, had given him muscle, while the height had just made me lanky, bonier than I'd been as a kid. It seemed natural to shimmy around a little and rest my head on his stomach, and it didn't seem odd that instead of pushing it away, or at least laughing, he instead began to gently stroke my hair, not pausing in what he was saying.

The CD flipped to Massive Attack, and I shifted, too, rolling onto my side, head still on Damian's belly, and now, casually, a hand on his thigh. The sleeve of my shirt slid up a bit and I felt a finger trace one of the lines of scar tissue on my upper arm. "That from Stanford?"

"That and the rest of them."

"Your arms and where else?"

"My chest, and a few on my legs."

Damian's touch was as gentle and as clinical as a doctor's. It felt half-ticklish on nerve endings that had never completely healed. "Can I see the other ones?"

"Yeah, sure." I pulled up my shirt a little bit, and Damian moved out from under me so that he could see better.

"That's a lot of scars, man."

"It was a pretty bad time."

"I can tell." His hand moved up my ribcage from my navel to my collarbone, and suddenly the touch was less clinical and more personal. He bent his head and gently kissed one of the scars, then another. I realized I was trembling under his mouth. "I never want you to do this again. Wherever you are, just find me and we'll work it out."

Another kiss. Another. On my hand, my wrist, my elbow, my throat. And then on my mouth, and it was absolutely normal to kiss back, to cup his face with one hand, move the other one to the soft skin on the back of his neck. I'd never kissed a guy before but it didn't seem strange, just me and Damian and a tangle of arms and legs. I'd seen his body any number of times—swimming, working out, changing clothes after work—but it was a different feeling to be lying halfway under it. And it wasn't soft like a girl's: it was solid and heavy and roped with muscle.

I kissed Damian until my lips were swollen. His back was sleek under my hands and just the slightest bit shirred with sweat. I wanted to put my hand on his ass and push him against me—any number of girls had done it to me—but I didn't. I wanted to know what all of him would feel like—naked hips, thighs, legs around mine—but I didn't dare find out. We kissed until we were too sleepy to continue, at which point we fell asleep in an amorphous many-limbed shape. I slept without waking.

* * * * * * * * * *

When I did wake up, we'd reverted to much the same position we'd started in, my head on Damian's stomach, his hands in my hair. When we'd started out like that, it hadn't seemed strange, but in the leaden light of a winter morning, it did. I lay there for a little while, relieved that most of my clothes were still on, and listened to the quiet noises of Damian's body: heartbeat, breathing, his stomach quietly announcing that it could use some food. Then I rose and dressed, and drove around the city until my shift started, wondering what the hell I was doing in this mess.

When I got home at close to one a.m., Damian was washing dishes--the first time anyone had touched them in at least a week--and DJ Shadow was pulsing from our stereo. Except for the dishwashing, it was a perfectly normal situation; nevertheless, shuffling into my room and avoiding Damian seemed like the best option. But evading your oldest friend in the world is a pretty lame-ass thing to do, and so I hoisted my bag over my head and onto the table, and said, "Good morning."

Damian echoed it. "Your mom called. So did Lexie."

"Any message?"

"Just to tell you that they called."

I'd known Lexie for years; so had Damian. "Did you talk to her?"

"For a little while. I think she might actually dump the Creep." The Creep was Scott, who unfortunately had been around for three years.

I wanted to ask if I had come up in the conversation. I didn't. "Do you want some help?"

"Thanks, but I'm almost done. The mold on the plates was starting to become sentient."

I widened my eyes and cocked my head at an improbable angle. "I see—that you are becoming—SENTIENT—my young creation!" I staggered forward a few feet and cackled; it was an old joke.

"And now," Damian continued, "like all—SENTIENT—creatures, you must learn to know—PAIN!"

We both laughed.

"Want a beer?" Damian asked.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The snowstorm, the one that had been predicted for a month and had never appeared, hit that night. It was snowing lightly when I went to bed around three, and I woke up at six shivering and surrounded by pitch black. I tried to turn on my light, but to no avail. No light, no heat: no power.

Shit. The apartment was in the basement; it was cool in the summer, but mid-February without heat meant that the weight of the old building's dank cold would sink onto us. I got up, pulled on wool socks and a sweatshirt, and looked outside. There was already what looked like a foot of snow on the ground, and more falling steadily. I crawled back into bed, wrapping myself up as tightly as I could in my covers. I pulled my head under my blankets. My breath warmed me slightly, but it was still damn cold.

Through the many inches of cloth, I heard a knock at my door. "You awake?"

I poked my head out. "Come on in."

Damian sat down on the edge of my bed, his old quilt wrapped around him. "Fucking heat's out."

"Yeah, I noticed. It's so Goddamn cold. I understand why my parents thought I was crazy to leave California."

Damian spread the quilt on top of the mound I'd made. "Shove over. Share the warmth."

I did, and Damian curled up into his own fetus beside me. Several minutes later, he and I were still shivering, and we reached for each other at the same time. "You were crazy for leaving California." My head against his chest, I could feel the words vibrate as they were spoken. "Who in their right mind would come back to this?"

I turned over, and a small exposed part of my stomach met up with Damian's hand. "Christ, your hands are cold. Jesus, Damian! Warn me before you do that!" The hand had found its way under my shirt, joined by its equally frigid counterpart. I lay still and breathed while Damian's hands slowly regained a normal temperature. I felt like I'd just melted two large cubes of ice against my skin.

Damian wrapped his fingers around mine, and I realized how cold my hands had gotten. The skin of his belly was warm against my palms and taut with muscle. It reminded me of exactly how much I hadn't touched the night before. Damian's hands burrowed back under my clothing, resting on my back. We were still for quite some time, not quite warm enough to sleep but not so cold as to get frostbite. The Damian factor aside, it was enough to make me consider reapplying to Stanford.

A gentle finger began stroking the length of my spine from the small of my back to the nape of my neck. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

"I can hear you breathe."

"I can hear you, too."

The other hand made a gentle path through my hair. "So what was that about, last night? Were we just really drunk?"

"Yeah. I think so." A pause. "But we've been drunker before, and nothing like that ever happened."

"We were a lot younger, though, before. Maybe stupider in some ways."

"You don't think what happened was stupid?"

"Justin, we've done some stupid shit in our lives. Remember breaking into the junior high school when we were freshmen?"

"And it turned out the janitor was asleep in the cafeteria and almost busted our asses?"

"I mean, maybe what happened never happens again. Or maybe it does; I don't know. But either way I don't think it was stupid."

I closed my eyes. It was dark, so the effect was the same, but it didn't matter. I couldn't talk about this with my eyes open. "I've never done anything like that with someone who wasn't female."

"Neither have I."

"But you seem OK with it."

There was a long pause. "I guess I am. I mean, maybe I wouldn't be if it wasn't you. But it is you, and I'm not worried."

Damian shifted, and suddenly, instead of comfortably curled into him, I was lying on top of him. His hands moved up my body, found my face, and then we were kissing again. I broke away to trace Damian's ear with my tongue, and he arched up against me, moaning, and it was then that I could feel his erection through the soft flannel of his pajama bottoms. Technically it was nothing we hadn't done before—all we were doing was kissing—but the previous night might have been two friends in a drunken stupor, nothing more, but this was a second chance, stone cold sober, and plainly sexual.

Damian moved again, and then I was underneath him. More kisses, and I wrapped my legs around his, and we both gasped. "Let me undress you." Damian's voice was hoarse.

I was so warm I was sure I'd never need clothes again. I guided his hands, first to my sweatshirt, then his, then my sweatpants, then his pajama bottoms, and even my socks. And then we were naked and twined around each other, breath coming quickly, moving to touch skin and Damian's mouth on my nipples and I surrendered to him.

And then there was his hand on my cock, and I couldn't keep back the moan. I moved with him, gasping, my hips thrusting into his fist, and the sounds I was making could have been his name. And then he stopped. It took me a full minute to be able to ask, "Why are you stopping?"

"I want you to touch me, Justin."

"Oh God... OK. Just keep doing that."

Damian didn't answer. He curled down and kissed my navel, then ran his tongue down my belly and over the crease of my hip. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, and I moaned, "Please," before I realized I had said anything.

But then he stopped, and his face appeared back near mine. "Touch me, Justin. And then I'll suck you." His hand back on my cock, stroking gently. "Imagine what my mouth will feel like on you. Do you want that?"

"Yes... oh..." I leaned up for his mouth, and we kissed as we turned over onto our sides. I explored the smooth skin of his upper body, the light fur of his chest and the hard nubs of nipples. I wished I could see him better, watch his face when I caressed him. He took two of my fingers into his mouth, and it was then that I grasped his cock—shaped much like mine, thick and soft-tipped—and slid my fingers in and out in the same rhythm as my strokes.

I never thought I would see Damian helpless to anyone, and I wondered if his girlfriends had gotten to see this, his body curving and releasing as he whimpered for more. "Please, Justin... make me come."

I couldn't believe the words as they came out of my mouth. "You left me hanging; why should I?" I kept my stroke steady, and Damian bucked into it.

"God, that feels good... oh don't stop. Please. I'll suck you dry." He was leaking pre-come, and I gathered some for lubrication, and I jerked him with slow, wet strokes, and then Damian didn't talk at all. Small wordless sounds came from him, and I went faster.

He came shuddering, semen spilling over my hand. When the last of it had passed, I wiped my hand on one of our shirts, and we lay there together as Damian caught his breath. I listened as Damian's heart slowed down. "I still owe you something in return," said after a few minutes. Gently, he pushed me onto my back. This time it was his mouth on my nipples, warm breath and then mobile tongue. I buried my hands in his hair as Damian's head moved down my body, licking chest, torso, and finally pausing between my legs. "I want you to ask for it, Justin."

Getting air in my lungs was enough of a challenge; I couldn't imagine that I'd have to request a blow job as well. I lay there, silently, and tried not to moan.

A sly finger circled the head of my penis and the moan came out. "If you can't ask for one," Damian said, "I don't think you're ready to have one."

I took a breath and tried to steady my voice. "Please... please suck me."

And he did, and the moans turned into cries as nonverbal as Damian's had been. It felt insanely good, warm and wet and mobile. I came so hard I could barely breathe, arching up and then collapsing to curl into Damian's chest. He tucked the covers around our bodies, and I listened to my heartbeat slow next to his. I didn't think I could sleep, but I did, deeply, and dreamlessly.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning, I woke to the rumbling of the heater and breathed happily as it shuddered and then came back on. I opened my eyes to see Damian smiling at me. "Take a look outside," he said.

I did. The morning was clear and blindingly brilliant, a snowstorm like I hadn't seen in years. I realized what I'd missed when I'd been in California, which was, at its best, sunny and warm. The happy yellow West Coast sun could never compete with the breathtaking brightness of waking up to an ocean of snow outside. There had to be at least two and a half feet on the ground, probably closer to three. Damian and I were seasoned Detroit drivers, but no way were we stupid enough to try and get to work through this. I called in, and got back in bed next to a naked body that was unmistakeably male and belonging to my best friend. We didn't cuddle, but his hand settled on my hip as though it had always belonged there. Maybe it had. "What do you want for breakfast?" Damian asked.

"French toast," I said.


End file.
